Auguries of Innocence
by ferain1832
Summary: "Some are born to sweet delight/Some are born to endless night." A series of contemplative drabbles based on literary quotes. Mainly featuring Enjolras, Combeferre and Grantaire. Complete.
1. The Beginning of Always (ER)

_Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always. – Dante_

There were times when Grantaire could not run away anymore, moments where the drink turned the wrong way in his brain, forcing him to abandon his strained gaiety and look at himself in the mirror.

He was alone in the Café Musain that evening, alone in a crowd which was even worse. There was no one with whom he could laugh or exchange sarcastic jokes, no one to pat him on the shoulder and propose a game of dominos, no one to drive away what the popular writers called _the spleen _and stop him from taking a ride down to Pope's eponymous underworld.

Of course, he could have joined that group of card players nearest to the bar that was raising hell with their roars and curses. Perhaps, on another occasion, he might have done so, but tonight Grantaire was in no mood for cretins. The evening was shaping out to be scarily low. There was a strange desolate feeling building up in his stomach that made him clutch at his glass and empty it all at once. Nothing was wrong, he repeated to himself. Gros chased him out from his _atelier_, so what? He had means enough to remain in his lodging, drinking and gambling and wasting his life away like any other gentleman about town. There was plenty of company he could find, plenty of ways to divert himself. There was nothing wrong; there were so many others like him in the glorious city of Paris.

Perhaps it was this realization that there wasn't anything wrong that frightened him. Life ought to have been merry and carefree, now that he was out of Toulouse and his father's grasp. It ought to have been so, and still there was this gnawing fear in his chest that made his lungs constrict and his fingers tighten around the bottle. So every day he drank, laughed, scoffed, flirted, shouted sarcastic insults, running away from that feeling, hoping desperately that one of these mornings it'll disappear and he could be a happy profligate in peace.

He was seated near the door and it opening all of a sudden made him stir and look up.

A man had entered the café.

Grantaire looked at him once and everything else became a blur.

He must have drunk more than he realised because it seemed as if the archangel Michael has descended the skies and made an appearance in the humble _quartier Saint-Jacques. _Grantaire had to blink several times to convince himself that it was in fact a real man. It must have been him that the poets sung their lays about all along - here were golden curls and perfect coral lips and eyes that Grantaire, voluntarily, would have likened to cornflowers instead of sapphires.

Yet somehow his beauty was the least that mattered. There was something about the slender young man that grabbed Grantaire by the collar and refused to let go. He had an aura around him that could only be put on canvas as a halo. His glance swept past Grantaire, taking in the room and the smoke and the rowdy card players, looking at them and through them at the same time, as if these were little more than curls on the edge of a cloud. Whatever he was doing here, it seemed important, really crucial, something beyond the concerns of ordinary mortals.

"Thank you, Combeferre," the man suddenly said. With a jolt Grantaire realised that there was someone else with him. "This will do very well."

Even his voice sounded different, abrupt yet not sharp, melodious like an Olympian lute. He reminded Grantaire of Roman heroes in their original Latin, sparse and austere and fresh, nothing like the pompous dandies of today with their powdered speeches and stale sentiments.

And just for a moment, to take in all that dawn, to breathe in this fresh morning air, made Grantaire feel like an invalid getting up on his feet. For a minute, he felt strong, healthy, clean, as if there had been no drinking and the tightness in his stomach had never reared its ugly head.

That night was the beginning of a story to which there was no end, for eternity went beyond bullets and insignificant little things like death.


	2. A Tender Heart (Enjolras, Combeferre)

_Nature, in giving tears to man, confessed that he had a tender heart; this is our noblest quality. – Juvenal_

"It is a terrible pity," Combeferre said. "I wish there was another way to go."

"So do it."

Enjolras was standing at the window, with his back to Combeferre, gazing at some distant spot in the street Combeferre could not see.

"I do," Enjolras repeated. "I wish it dearly. I wish we did not have to fight, that we could simply solve our problems using words and agreements. Yet were it so easy, we would not be here today."

"I know," Combeferre sighed. "I just cannot help wishing it."

"There is no use wishing," Enjolras said, turning abruptly to face him. "A man may dream, yet every dream must have a viable ending. There are facts that must be acknowledged and there are things that must be done, whether one wants to or not."

Combeferre smiled. "You have always been more practical than I."

"And you softer."

It was true. Enjolras was the snowy peak of the mountain that not everyone could bear to climb.

"Yet, Enjolras," he continued, "I am convinced that the suffering of our people will be, in the end, alleviated not by fighting but by tenderness."

"How so?"

"Fighting is a crime against nature," Combeferre said softly. "In times such as ours, man has so perverted the world that desperate measures are needed to restore it. Yet I am sure that in the end the better, nobler side of man will prevail."

"And is that state natural to man, do you think?"

"I am convinced that it is so."

Enjolras's lips twitched into a sad smile. "In time. As it is, we need a deluge to wash away the filth of the past ages."

Combeferre sighed. "Filth or not, they are our brothers, and this deluge is fratricide."

"They are our brothers," Enjolras said, turning back to the window, "yet they are not our friends."

And, though his tone was as resolute and assured as ever, his eyes glistened momentarily.

Combeferre stood up, walking up to his friend and placing an arm around his shoulder. What he admired most was not Enjolras's tender heart; it was his ability to persevere despite of it.


	3. Will (Courfeyrac)

_Will cannot be quenched against its will. – Dante _

"Really, Papa," Courfeyrac laughed, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not doing so very badly in my studies, I've acquired a beautiful collection of hats and waistcoats, not to mention that I've made the acquaintance of the prettiest women in Paris. I even went to the theatre with the third cousin of the Duke of Aumale. What am I doing wrong?"

He had been summoned to his father's study that morning, just as he was about to go out on a visit to a charming cousin. Summer was coming to an end and Courfeyrac wanted to know something more of the lovely Lucie before the lecture halls and Blondeau were upon him once again.

"You ought to move in higher circles," his father said. "Did you ever use that letter I wrote for the Vicomte de Narbonne? Your mother and I were talking about it the whole of last month. We fear you might get yourself entangled with the wrong sort."

Courfeyrac smiled diplomatically, twirling his cane between his fingers.

"Honestly, boy! Do you not care for the reputation of your family?"

"Why, Papa," Courfeyrac said earnestly, "of course I do. This is why I do not gamble, well, not much anyway, only at billiards sometimes, neither do I spread scandal or abuse my neighbours nor debauch pure young maidens, well, not against their will certainly and not if their reputation will suffer much by it, in short, I try to be honest, upright and agreeable."

"You know as well as I do that this is not what I am talking about."

Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders. "Not at all, my dear Papa."

His father let out an exasperated sigh. "I blame myself. I should never have entrusted you to that Enjolras."

Courfeyrac smirked. "You liked him well enough at the start."

Little did his father know that the quiet, beautiful, studious Michel Enjolras, the only son of a landowner not many miles away, whom he thought to be the perfect candidate to look after his exuberant son during his first months at Paris, would turn out to be a fervent revolutionary that enticed Courfeyrac with stirring visions of the glorious future and the dire present.

"That young man has proved a disappointment to all," his father was saying. "I hear that his father won't see him. Arguments over politics, they say. I chose to put my trust in him because I knew he was unlikely to dissipate you. Not the type to frequent brothels and taverns, I thought - "

Courfeyrac stifled a giggle. The only reason for Enjolras to go to a brothel or a tavern was to tell the poor courtesans that the Republic was coming and salvation was nigh.

"No, sir," his father continued, his voice dangerously vicious, "not brothels, worse. What is the former but follies of youth? This, however, is unforgivable. I will not have you consorting with criminals and regicides, my boy."

His fingers came to a halt and tightened around the cane. "Don't say that about Enjolras," Courfeyrac said gently.

"I positively forbid it," his father said, slamming his fist on the table. "Give him a chance and that young man will burn down the house of our ancestors. I will not allow my son and heir to associate with such godless scoundrels."

"Enjolras is a good man," Courfeyrac said, still in the same even, pleasant voice. "He is no bloodthirsty _enragé. _He has a heartand he pities the suffering of the people, just as I do."

"Of course you do," his father said, "do you think I do not? Yet there is a right way to handle that, by letting the masters of the land govern it well, not by crowning the rabble."

Some time later he was being shaken along in the carriage, well on his way to his delightful destination. It was all very well, Courfeyrac thought, for his father to go on in this way. A little deception, a few jokes and winks, and peace was restored in the household. His father needn't know too much about his son. Courfeyrac was quite content to be seen by them all as a charming dandy, decadent but harmless, a little swayed by the radicals in Paris but a good sort nonetheless. Anything else did not concern them.

It was lucky that they thought so, since Courfeyrac would have hated to quarrel with them. He despised futile arguments and a futile one it would have been.

_Will cannot be quenched against its will._


	4. Where Gentleness Avails Not (ER)

_**A/N: This chapter is a sequel to Chapter 1. **  
_

_Force is legitimate where gentleness avails not. – Corneille_

Grantaire had been watching him, because watching was the only action he could take.

Therein lay the problem. He was incapable of anything but watching. Ever since he first saw the blond angel incarnate in the Musain, he practically lived in the café, hoping that he would come back. _This would do very well, _he had said, that meant he might come back, and Grantaire subsisted on that hope.

In the end, he did come back, not alone but with a bunch of students. They laughed together, made jokes, drank, debated. The blond mostly sat quietly in the corner, writing something or talking to another bespectacled student, sometimes raising his voice just a little to speak to the whole group, upon which they respectfully turned to him. He was different from the others, Grantaire could tell it a mile off. Different, but still loved and respected.

He longed to have the strength to walk over there and talk to them. Not even just for the blond, for the whole company. Their numbers differed, sometimes less, sometimes more, but always there was a sense of cheer and ease and warmth.

One day, he saw a familiar face among them. A tall, brawny man in a scarlet waistcoat. He had seen him before, right in this very café. They met a year ago or so, talked a few times. His name was Bahorel.

Grantaire considered it for a moment. He imagined himself going right up to the group, clapping Bahorel on the shoulder. They'd fall silent for a moment, the blond would look up. He'd see him closer than ever. Maybe they'd even invite him to sit with them. Maybe they'd become friends.

It would all be within his grasp if he only got enough resolution to get up and do it.

Grantaire spent five more minutes floundering, a thousand different terrifying scenarios going through his brain, then suddenly stood up.

He made his way across the café, stumbling even though he was as sober as a choirboy. The blond was leaning towards the man with the spectacles and whispering something in his ear.

It was Bahorel who noticed him first.

"Grantaire," he exclaimed, "good to see you here!"

"You've got company, I see?"

The blond looked up. His searching, probing glance landed on Grantaire and all thoughts flew out of his mind.

"Meet some of my friends," Bahorel was saying, with a nod at each one as he pointed them out. "Courfeyrac," - a curly haired young man with a bright grin and an extravagant green waistcoat - "Joly," - a rosy-cheeked student with a cane - "Combeferre," - the spectacled one beside… - "Enjolras."

Enjolras.

The cheerful Courfeyrac immediately reached out with a hand to shake. "Come sit with us," he said. "Do you play at billiards? I'm looking for a good partner."

"Hey," Bahorel laughed, "is that an insult?"

The blond Enjolras looked at him for a moment more, nodded as if in acknowledgement, then turned back to his conversation.

Later, much later, when they let him into the secret of what they were doing, Grantaire tried his hardest to transform. He knew all too well that without the Holy Grail of Republicanism, the elusive Enjolras would never look at him for longer than a moment.

He tried convincing him that he believed in the whole business, that he had ideals, thoughts, opinions. Enjolras saw through his pretense. Oh, he was willing enough to trust him. He sent him on missions to deliver leaflets to some workers somewhere. Grantaire failed.

He failed every time, whatever he tried. There was nothing he could do or say that turned out how he wanted it to. So, Grantaire no longer tried very much. It seemed useless to force his way through. He simply watched him, because that was the only thing he knew how to do. He sat in the Musain day after day, night after night, his eyes fixed tenderly on Enjolras as he spoke, whispered, debated, worked, ate, slept. Only sometimes did he erupt into a confrontation, demanding, challenging, pleading. Mostly, he just watched. He had a feeling that one day, this gentleness would prevail.


	5. Only in the Grave (Enjolras, Combeferre)

_Those who would do good in this world, those who would make revolutions in this world must sleep only in the grave - Saint-Just._

"Enjolras."

"Combeferre, we've talked about this."

Combeferre let out a deep sigh. Ever since those days in July, fatal to liberty, when they have been so deceived by Orleans, Enjolras had been that way. Working feverishly from dawn till dusk, pale, bags under his eyes, lips tight together, a strange expression on his rigid face. Not desperate precisely, more as though he had unfurled his wings.

His feet had always only just touched the ground anyway. Combeferre had to admit it unnerved him. He would much rather he reacted to it like the others. Ranted and tore down the notices like Bahorel, made passionate and witty speeches like Courfeyrac, even worked himself up to tears like Prouvaire. He could have comforted him then. Now he was powerless, unable to deal with the priest of the revolution in full motion.

"We have talked about it," Combeferre finally said. "And - "

Enjolras suddenly looked up. "Would you have me act differently? If you think I've made a false step somewhere, tell me and I shall amend it."

"No, I - "

"We must act now," Enjolras continued, his eyes glinting in the same desperate and feverish manner. "It is expedient that we do. Do you not see? He has stolen the crown, now he will steal the people. I know what you think my position to be, but I've told you I do not believe the people will rise again if we called them tomorrow. I do not delude myself. There has been enough bloodshed and Orléans is clever."

"Very clever," Combeferre sighed. "We haven't seen the end of this, Enjolras. He is no blundering Charles."

"You know," Enjolras said, still clutching his pen, "I hardly minded him until now. He had some decent ideas, he is no autocrat. Yet now, he has betrayed us and himself. He has become the enemy, do you see? He is now the king and France must not have kings."

"Still," Combeferre said, placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "I do believe things may improve a tiny bit. Orléans have always been more liberal."

Enjolras just raised a mocking eyebrow. "What use is his liberalism to the people? That is what angers me most. He will entice them with his compromises. Some will believe in the _Citizen King. _What a farce! The two words cannot coexist. Either a citizen or a king, never both. One cannot believe in liberty while governing over others. Will the people see that? I do not know. Since I do not, we must do what we can to awaken righteous anger."

"Certainly," Combeferre said. "I simply want you to be careful."

For the first time in three weeks, Enjolras smiled. "I know you do. I am careful. I never once went into the _faubourgs _unaccompanied, neither am I negligent about trails. All shall be well."

"As long as you believe that, I cannot doubt you."

Enjolras gave another tired smile. The electric aura around him was lessening. "I have always believed and I will always believe. Have no doubt."

Combeferre returned the smile, with a further press of his shoulder. "And I do not doubt that you will now eat some soup and pass the first night in three weeks not collapsed on the table but in your own bed."

"As for that," Enjolras said, his eyes growing serious once more, "you'll have to excuse me. _Those who would do good in this world, those who would make revolutions, must sleep only in the grave._"


	6. Dulce et decorum est (Enjolras)

_It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. - Horace_

For Enjolras, there had never been a choice. He hadn't always known it, but his fate had been written for him from the very start. A true revolutionary, he had come to realise, was a doomed man.

It mattered little what the personal life of Robespierre had been, it might as well have never existed. What posterity cared about were those last years of life and that final death, everything else was null. Courfeyrac was forever dragging Enjolras out to the theatre, the opera, a ball, telling him that he must live life to the full. Enjolras obediently rendered himself into his hands yet he knew that this was not life, not for him. Life was in what his hours were given to; life was in what would follow his death, if it came. Hardly a death, he thought, not when one considered what it would herald. It was sweet, it was fitting, and Enjolras did not fear it.

The others were different. Sometimes, Enjolras realised that they were braver than himself. They belonged to an everyday life; the harsh but beautiful world of revolutions and barricades was to them an excursion into the beyond. He admired them for taking that step so readily.

None of them wanted to die, neither did Enjolras himself. None, equally, had entered into the fray without knowing what was asked of them. It was Courfeyrac, as usual, who suggested that the core members of their group swore an oath of allegiance. _If required, to go through fire for the sake of a new dawn, to dedicate my efforts to the building of a new world, and, as a last resort, to lay down my life at the altar of the Republic._

If the prospect of his own death did not trouble Enjolras, that of his friends did. He never quite admitted it, but their lives were worth more to him than the symbolism that a noble death would bring. He didn't want to see any of them shot, bayonetted, beaten, blown to pieces. Sometimes, sitting on the wide windowsill of his apartment, Enjolras looked down onto the street and wondered how strange it was, that for the salvation of this great nation such carnage had to occur.

Several riots and a barricade only proved to him what he already suspected - that there was nothing beautiful in a violent death. It was ugly and cold and hideous. And yet, Enjolras understood as well as ever why it was glorified.

_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_

_mors et fugacem persequitur virum_

_nec parcit inbellis iuventae_

_poplitibus timidove tergo._

It was sweet and fitting to die for one's country, because death would pursue all men, the fleeing or the intrepid, the timid and the bold. In the end, man was born to die and die he must, one way or another. Then, if death was inevitable, was it not better to die for one's country, for one's people, for the future that such a death would bring?

It was not for everyone, to be sure. Enjolras had no need of naive youths browbeaten into death for a scrap of glory. What he admired was a mature, discriminating man that knew precisely what for, why and how he was to die.


	7. Patience (ER)

_Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. – Rousseau_

Anyone would have thought he was mad. There were times when Grantaire thought so too.

You are an imbecile, he told himself. Could you have found a more inappropriate person to worship? Oedipus and Jocasta could not have been more ill matched. Grantaire had thought he had given up on all that. He, a cynic and a drunk, whose only pleasure these days was to discover a new drinking mate and a good bottle of wine, infatuated with the most radical revolutionary to be seen, all blond and blue eyed and delicate and beautiful, prompt to poetic speeches that swayed even his jaded inclinations, so strange and different and fresh and…

Enjolras was everything that, if Grantaire had ever been a creature of reason, he should have been sick at the sight of. Instead, whenever he saw him, it felt as if the hollows in his soul were filled.

Grantaire tried to avoid the impertinent question of precisely what it was he felt for him. It frightened him too much. He knew neither why the other man moved him so deeply, nor what he wanted from him, nor whether he wanted anything at all. In his more coherent hours, he tried to compare it with other experiences he had and it never seemed to fit. There were all the girls he had ever fallen in love with, there were the women he spent lonely nights with. Then there was Enjolras, separate and unique.

After a while, he accepted that perhaps there was no need to try and figure it out. Mad as it was, the feeling remained. Courtly lovers lamented the cruelty of their beloved, at times Grantaire did too, yet he never wished that the arrow had not struck. There was nothing before Enjolras and nothing after him. It seemed to him that he had lived only for that first meeting. Though he suffered when Enjolras passed him by, chastised him, threw him glances of disdainful pity, he suffered still more when Enjolras was not in sight. Without Enjolras, there was as much point in living as for an apple tree in a dark cave.

Constantly pushed away, he would always come back; not as a moth returned to the flame but as a butterfly to a beautiful flower. He admired him, loved him, venerated him, and he would do so until he died.

And when the moment came, standing there beside him, at last worthy and accepted, at last feeling the slender fingers tighten around his own, seeing his eyes light up and his lips curl into a rare and beautiful smile, Grantaire knew that his patience had not been in vain.


End file.
